


Boxing Day

by spikesgirl58



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-06
Updated: 2013-09-06
Packaged: 2017-12-25 19:57:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/957020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tied up and left in a crate in December, Illya and Napoleon do what they have to in order to escape - and it's not what you think...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boxing Day

“Illya?”

“Yes, Napoleon?”  Only mild irritation marked the words as Illya paused in his squirming.

“Do you ever make New Year’s resolutions?”

A sigh.  “Not as a rule, why?”

“I do, just so I have something to look forward to breaking.”

“Is this another odd American tradition which I have yet to encounter?”

“Hmm, that’s possible…”  A rustle as Napoleon changed positions.  They were tied, back-to-back, and in a crate.  There was enough room to move, barely, and the cracks between the rough wooden boards allowed air to creep in.  It was cold, not unusual for this time of the year.  New Year’s Eve and somewhere people were laughing and dancing, singing, drinking, and eating, for they were not stuck inside a box, in some empty building in the middle of the cold December night.  

“The longer I remain in your country, the more mystified I am by it.”  Illya had resumed trying to undo the knots that held Napoleon’s hands.  The cold made his fingers feel like sausages and he kept his eyes closed as he concentrated upon his task.

“Like everything you do in the USSR makes sense.”

“It does to me.”

“Back at you, then.”

“Why do you not step on cracks?”

“Mom does enough, she doesn’t deserve a broken back,” Napoleon quipped and tried to shift closer to give Illya more access.  His fingers were already numb.  Of course, he’d been bound and in the crate for a lot longer than his partner.

“That makes no sense.”  Illya sighed.  “I… I cannot do this, Napoleon.  I can no longer feel my fingers.”

“Illya, stuff it.”

“I beg your pardon, I think you over-react.”

“No, I mean your hands.  Can you get them down your pants, warm them up?”

There was movement and some grunting.  “No, not at this angle.”

“Um, Illya, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but can you get them down mine?”

The shaking mystified Napoleon until he realized his partner was laughing.  “How the mighty have fallen.  The great Napoleon Solo is asking me for such an act of flagrant --”

“Illya, I’m serious.  If one of us can’t get these ropes undone, they are going to have two UNCLE Popsicles in the morning.  Your hands are the warmer and more flexible of the two of us.”

“All right, but know that I am doing this under protest and I am not what you call an easy lay.”

“Illya Nichovetch Kuryakin!  Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“Not often enough, thank you.”

Napoleon gasped and arched as a blast of ice hit his lower back.  “Shit, Illya, warn me before you do that.”

“You just told me –“

“I know what I just told you… it’s just…. Your hands are cold.”

There was a chuckle then.  “Ah, yes, but my heart is very warm and if you don’t mind my saying, your… posterior… is very warm as well.”

“Why, Mr. Kuryakin, are you saying my ass is hot?”

“Yes, and in the most masculine way possible.”

Napoleon chuckled at that and shook his head in amazement.   He was cold, hungry and exhausted.   Here he was facing possible death and he was laughing right in its face, all because of his partner.

“So these resolutions?  What would they be, my friend?”  Illya pressed closer to Napoleon, determined to increase their body heat as much as possible now.  He purposefully kept his hands still though to keep from making Napoleon any more uncomfortable than he obviously was.

“Um, let’s see, to die young and leave a good looking corpse behind.”

“Wait, these are ones you intend not to keep?”  Illya winched at the pins and needles in his fingers as they defrosted.  He shifted them to a new, warmer spot.

“Most assuredly.”

“Then I will permit that one.”

“How about you?” 

“I do not… I resolve to become CEA.”

“You?  In a pig’s eye.”

“Perhaps.”  Illya sighed as his fingers began to move again to his will.  “I think I can try again, Napoleon.”

“Wait a bit more.  Be sure.”

“Napoleon?  Is this some bizarre quirk to your nature previously unknown?”

“No, I’m not going to give you a second chance to stuff your hands down my pants.  I want you to be sure your hands are good to go.”

“Not a second chance – alas, there goes one of my resolutions even before I was able to make it.”

“What?”

“Nothing.  It had been two days since I’ve slept and I have said too much.  I am ready.”

The fingers were fairly dancing across the ropes now and, within a breath, Napoleon swore he felt a knot shift… then again and suddenly his hands were blissfully free.  “I’m good, Illya.”

“So the standing rumor goes.” 

For the first time in two hours, Napoleon brought first one arm and then the other forward.  The ache in his shoulders was a small price to pay for freedom.  “Give me a minute and then scoot over as far as you can.  I’m going to try to get on my back and get this lid off.  Then you and I are going to ring in the New Year and have us a long talk.”

“Perhaps after a little sleep first?  And something to eat?”

“Perhaps.”

                                                                                                ****

When their THRUSH captors returned three hours later, it was to an empty crate and a bomb set to go off in less than fifteen seconds.  Needless to say, they brought in the New Year’s with a substantial ‘bang.’


End file.
